Some Traditions Are Best Forgotten
by Dude13
Summary: Frankie joins her grandmother for what she thinks is nothing more than an age old Foster rite of passage....unfortunately, no one exactly warned her how much of a hangover inducer the experience really is.


Ack, so sorry about the total lack of updates for a while. No real excuses here, except that way too much time and energy was being put into my summer job, and not much else. I'll try and start posting more regularly soon! Sorry!

**Author's Warning**: Like everything else, this takes place in my series, set up by the events in my first story "More Than My Friend" where the big event is that Frankie adopts Mac as her "little brother". If you haven't read that story yet, I strongly suggest you do so now, or else you might get terribly confused.

* * *

"…You wanted to see me, Grandma?" 

The wispy-haired old woman glanced up from her knitting and smiled warmly the instant she spotted the lanky teenager peering in through the doorway.

"Hmm? Oh there you are!" Madame Foster answered with a grin. "Yes, yes, come in, dear."

Obediently her seventeen-year-old granddaughter did as told, plodding over and taking a respectful stance as the little old lady began to prattle amiably.

"Glad to see Wilt managed to find you so quickly." She remarked while placing her needles and yarn aside. "Of course, the poor fellow probably apologized that he couldn't find you sooner, didn't he? Or did he tell you he was sorry for interrupting whatever you were in the middle of?"

"Well, I was just watching TV downstairs, but he still-" Frances "Frankie" Foster began to answer before her grandmother burst out chuckling.

"Haha! I _knew_ it! Bless his heart, never in all my years have I ever seen someone so…so…oh come on, what's _this_?"

It was at this point that she finally noticed Frankie had very much gone overboard with the filial respect, standing straight upright with her hands tucked behind her back and waiting patiently next to her cushy armchair like a private waiting to be ordered about by some spit-and-polish drill sergeant.

"What's what?" the girl murmured bewilderedly. "What're you – _OW_! Grandma!"

In the blink of an eye, the shrewd old woman had reached for her cane and lashed out with a playful rap to the unsuspecting teen's shin. Immediately, Frankie let loose with a shrill yelp and broke out into a clumsy hopping dance of pain.

"Grandma, what's wrong with you?" she snapped, glaring daggers at her smirking grandmother.

"Heehee!" Madame Foster only giggled fiendishly like a naughty toddler and flashed a sly wink at the seething redhead. "I should be asking you the same question! You're acting like I'm going to bite you or something-"

"With good cause!" Frankie whined as she checked for bruising.

"Oh come now, lighten up a little! What's wrong, dearie? I just wanted to have a talk with you, that's all."

"…A talk?" The teen repeated anxiously, drawing up a nearby chair as Madame Foster rolled her eyes with a heavy sigh.

"Yes dear, a talk; _not_ a lecture. That's my bunny's job. Honest, Frankie, you're not in trouble, what on earth possessed you to-"

"Wilt said I had to come quick though…he said you told him he had to get me for something important." Frankie protested, eyeing her grandmother a bit warily while she settled herself.

Madame Foster rested her chin and tittered softly as a crafty grin snuck its way across her face.

"Well of _course_ it's important!" she chortled uproariously. "After all, celebrations aren't exactly an everyday thing, you know."

"Huh?" Frankie grunted dumbly, cocked an eyebrow as she stared blankly at the little old lady in her befuddlement. "Wait, what? A celebration?"

"Well…it's more of a little tradition, if you want to get in the nitty-gritty of it." Her grandmother laughed, reaching next to her chair and lifting high two glasses and an ornate glass bottle, filled to the brim with a pale, hazel-colored liquid.

"…Grandma?" The teenager whined as she began to fidget about a bit nervously in her seat, clearly a bit anxious about where this seemed to be going. "What're you-"

"Oh it's not what I'm going to be doing." Madame Foster actually giggled, winking yet again at her slightly unnerved grandchild. "It's what _we're_ going to be doing."

"…Excuse me?" Frankie whined. As the girl struggled to figure out what was going on, the old woman never wavered a bit with her calm, lighthearted demeanor, as she filled the two tiny glasses and set them upon the small table between them.

"Oh, please, no need to worry." Madame Foster teased. "I told you, it's _just_ a minor family tradition, there's absolutely nothing to make a fuss about."

Frankie put on a wry grimace as the old woman placed one shot glass before her. "Er…I kinda beg to differ here…"

"I promise, Frankie, it's nothing." Madame Foster only continued to reassure as she lifted her own glass. "It's just a little tradition that they say my own great-grandmother started. Now then, I do believe _someone_ has an eighteenth birthday coming around soon, yes?"

"_You_ should know." Frankie replied absentmindedly as she examined the dubiously murky liquor. "Grandma, _where_ are you going with this, exactly?"

Her grandmother beamed proudly before she began to happily explain. "You see, the Foster's have always held in this family that eighteen is that ripe age when our girls and boys come of age and transform into fine young men and women. Thus, to celebrate this wondrous occasion, it's custom here that around that lucky lass or lad's special day, we sit them down and share a drink in commemoration; a toast, if you will, dearie."

"A toast? Um…." Frankie muttered, obviously a bit uncomfortable with the prospect of kicking back a drink with her own grandmother. "But…"

"Oh come now." Madame Foster encouraged her warmly. "I told you, it's just a small family tradition; nothing more, nothing less, just a little celebratory drink."

"But-" Frankie attempted to protest yet again before her grandparent added,

"Of course, I'm only asking, dearie. No one's going to force you, of course, and if you don't want to do it, then that's just fine. Still..." she sighed with an expertly faked frown of disapointment, "It would be a bit of a shame to break with such the old tradition...not saying that there's anything wrong with you not wanting to-"

"Okay, okay!" Frankie hastily relented under the expertly administered guilting and reached for her glass.. "I'll do it, I'll do it! But only because it's for family..."

"That's the spirit!" The crafty old woman cackled as she broke out grinning anew. "To you, dear!"

"Um…thank you…" Frankie muttered with a weak smile as their glasses met with a soft clink.

"To eighteen wonderful years, and plenty more to come!" Madame Foster toasted. "Bottoms up!"

Frankie laughed softly, raised the liquor to her lips-

And it was as if they very fires of hell itself had erupted inside her throat. The instant the fiery liquid hit her gullet, the girl had to swiftly repress the urge to instinctively spit out the drink for the sake of not inadvertently spewing the foul conncotion and drenching her grandmother. For a few seconds she struggled like mad to swallow the horrid drink, striving furiously to force it down as her eyes watered furiously under the intense scorching sensation that seemed to be transforming her throat into an inferno. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of indescribable torture, Frankie made one tremendous burst of effort and managed to gulp the burning mess down.

The deed finished, the girl softly placed her glass back upon the table. For a few moments, her nasty shock left unable to do a single thing, other than quiver wildly from head to toe like a paranoid schizophrenic. However, after hastily wiping away a few loose drops before they dribbled down her chin, Frankie managed to force a woefully forced grin for the benefit of her grandmother.

"Th-thanks for the d-drink, G-Gran-"

The words died upon her lips as soon as she realized her grandmother had placed several more glasses on either side of the coffee table and was filling up every single one to the very brim.

"Wonderful!" the old woman laughed merrily, beaming from ear to ear. "_Now_ that we've finally gotten started …"

* * *

"…P-please, no…no more-" 

"Oh come now, girl, no need to make such a fuss." Madame Foster calmly brushed her grandchild's protests aside as she lifted another overflowing shot glass high in the air with a grin. "You can do it, c'mon! Down the hatch!"

Wobbling about uncontrollably in her seat, her severely inebriated grandchild just elicited a light whimper as she struggled to focus her inceasingly blurring vision upon the old woman across from her.

"No…" she moaned in protest, struggling desperately just to keep from collapsing onto the floor in a drunken heap. "Grandma…I-I...don't wanna..."

"Come on, dearie, you're doing just fine." Madame Foster encouraged her warmly. "Let's go, just like we did before, just like-"

"Huh?" Frankie grunted stupidly, peering down before her with a set of horrifically bleary eyeballs. "But I don't…Grandma, p-please, I can't even-"

The elderly woman continued to smile joyfully at the sight of the teenager reaching repeatedly at the empty space next to her shot glass, as if she were watching the girl learn how to ride a bicycle for the best time.

"You can do it!! Remember, it's for tradition." She softly reminded with a chuckle. "Come on, almost there, you almost got it, just pick it up-"

"But which one of the three?" Frankie wailed, staring blankly at the single filled glass before her. "I keep going for the one on the left, but I-"

"I think you want the _middle_ one, Frankie." The old woman laughed, reaching over to guide her granddaughter's badly shaking hand onto the single glass. "There we go, you got it…now raise it up to your mouth, slowly…"

"_Why_?" Frankie implored miserably, but nevertheless still obediently lifting the shot up to her lips. "Grandma, I don't think-"

"You're doing just excellent, Frankie. Don't worry!" Madame Foster gleefully praised the poor girl. "I only got up to ten with _my_ grandmother, looks like you might blow this old fuddy-duddy's record clear out of the water, eh? What do you say to that, hmmm?"

"…What happened with that thing about just _one_ drink? No one said _anything_ about a stupid drinking contest!" the girl moaned miserably. Immediately her grandmother burst out giggling uncontrollably like a mere schoolgirl in unbridled glee.

"That's it!" she whooped, smiling from ear to ear as she gave Frankie a congratulatory pat on the arm. "Over a dozen, and you can still remember everything I said earlier! Oooh, that's my girl! Keep it up honey, you're doing just-"

"_What_? _What_ are you talking about? _What_ is going on here? This tradition _sucks_, Grandma!" Frankie snapped in a drunken slur, struggling with her impeded motor skills to point accusingly at her grandparent.

"Ha, look at you, mouthing off to your own grandmother!" Madame Foster cheered, clapping her hands excitedly. "Heehee! Just look at you, I never got to that point when I was in your place, I-"

Her teenage granddaughter interrupted her reminiscing with a fierce snarl. "Listen, I don't know what you're yabberin' on about, Grandma, but if you think I'm gonna sit here any longer, suckin' back whatever this God-awful junk you're giving me is, I-"

Without even thinking, Frankie tossed back her head and downed yet another shot of her grandmother's mysterious liquor before wiping her mouth and continuing.

"-Then you got another thing comin'! I swear, you try and make me take one more drink, and I'll…I-I'll…I'll…uh oh…"

_THUNK_!

With a soft whine, the semiconscious redhead suddenly toppled forward, letting her head thud roughly against the table and scattering half empty shot glasses left and right under the force of the impact.

"Ugh…" she groaned pitifully. As Frankie remained collapsed in her pathetic sprawl, her grandmother elicited noting more than a warm chuckle as she leaned over to pat the teenager's hand proudly.

"That's my girl…"

* * *

"…Wait…_how_ many did she make you drink?" Mac gasped incredulously, gawking wide-eyed at the twenty-two-year-old's unbelievable tale of woe. 

"I dunno, hard to say." Frankie muttered with a light shrug. "Grandma always tells me she that I got up to fourteen…."

"_Fourteen_?" the boy gasped in disbelief. "You mean she actually forced you to-"

"Well, that's what _she_ says." The caretaker groaned. "Frankly, I don't remember a thing past shot number seven."

"And that whole thing…that's _really_ supposed to be an actual Foster family tradition?" the eight-year-old murmured skeptically.

"Yes." She grunted sourly. "According to Grandma, that's _exactly_ what it is, thanks to my alcoholic great-great-great grandmother."

"And…the entire tradition revolves around a drinking contest with your grandmother when you turn eighteen?" he continued to inquire curiously.

"I told you it was a family tradition, I didn't say it was a _good_ one...or one to be proud of...or that it makes sense..." Frankie muttered, shaking her head. For a few moments, all she received in response was a peculiarly vacant stare from the little boy as he struggled like mad to process this bewildering array of information.

"Frankie?" Mac finally spoke up.

"Yeah, pal?" she whimpered.

"That's….that's _really_ weird…" the boy pointed out rather bluntly.

"Thanks for enlightening me." The young woman groaned saracastically before they lapsed into another horrifically awkward silence. For what felt like an eternity, neither one of them said a single word to the other, the redhead being far too busy struggling to block out the peculiar memory and the boy just gawking quietly at her in what little light they had as they cowered together in a third-floor utility closet.

"…Frankie?" He finally whispered, reaching past a couple of mops to tug lightly upon her jacket sleeve.

"What?"

"Uh…so…what exactly does all that have to do with you hiding-"

"Well, Grandma was so proud of me for getting as far as I did and…well, she liked it so much…" Frankie tried to solemnly explain before she paused, struggling to find the willpower to reveal the terrible truth.

"...What'd she do?" Mac whined.

"She kinda…'tweaked' the tradition..." The redhead finally whispered with a grimace.

"Huh?"

"Tweaked as in she made a new tradition out of it…" Frankie explained with an unvoluntary cringe. "As in she makes we get together with her same time…same place….same thing…_every_ single year…"

"Oh…._ohhhhhh_….wait, you mean…" Mac sputtered as the harsh realization struck him like a log to the stomach. "Oh…_no_…

"Guess who's turning twenty-three in a few weeks…." She muttered unhappily, burying her face in her hands with a sad moan. "But if she thinks I'm going through it it wagain, she's got to be out of her mind. I don't care _what_ she says anymore about 'bonding time' or 'it's for family', if she thinks I'm choking down any more of that god-awful-"

"Wait, wait, hold on! Wait a sec! Frankie?" Mac suddenly interrupted her fledgling rant.

"...What?"

"So…I mean, I understand why you don't like it, but...well, why do _I_ have to hide here with you?" he demanded.

"Huh? What do you mean?" Frankie replied, looking sincerely bewildered by his question. "I _just_ told you that-"

"You just told me what _she_ wants to do to _you_," Mac reminded her. "That still doesn't explain why you're making _me_ hide with-"

"Fraaaaaaaaaankieeeeeeeeeeee! Maaaaaaaaaac!" a familiar voice coincidentally echoed through from down the hallway in a pleasant singsong manner, followed by the familiar click-clack of someone hobbling along through the help of a walking stick. With a muted squeak of blind terror, Frankie threw her arms about the eight-year-old, clasped a hand tightly over Mac's mouth, and hastily scooted back to the far end of the closet as Madame Foster's cries grew progressively louder.

"Yooohooo! Frankie? Frankie, where are you? Mac? Maaaaaac?" Mac could hear the old women shout over Frankie's muted whimpers. "Where could those two be? I know I saw them at breakfast this morning, but….hmmm….where are they? Frankie? Frankie! Fraaaaaankieeeeeeeeee! Maaaaaaac! Where are yooooooou? Where are…"

Fortunately for them, Madame Foster was not exactly doing a thorough search, judging by the fact that they could clearly hear her hobble by their improvised refuge without pausing for so much as one second, and still crying out their names as she quickly vacated the scene. As soon as they were sure she was gone, the concealed duo let out synchronized sighs of relief before the sorely perturbed bpy finally forced Frankie's hand off his mouth.

"Wait! Wait! Just…just wait…" he whispered, his mind a chaotic whirl of confusion. "Why was she just….what does she need _me_ for when-"

"I overheard her talking about it to Fuzz-Butt...but then again, do you really need me to tell you why, Mac _Foster_…or would you just prefer that I just call you 'little bro'? Hmmm?" His legal guardian reminded.

"….Oh…_no_….." he squeaked, eyes widening to nearly the size of saucers as the horrendous realization dawned upon him.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." She murmured sadly as she began to gently tousle his hair in an attempt to calm his rattled nerves. "Shhhhh, remember, we gotta keep-"

"Wait, wait! But I don't….wait, so what is it exactly that Fosters have to do when they're almost nine, anyway?" Mac croaked in a hoarse squeak. Shuddering uncontrollably as an obviously unpleasant memory flashed through her mind, Frankie swept the boy into a protective squeeze and whispered softly,

"Let's just be thankful I remembered to throw out all the pepper relish earlier this morning..."

**The End **


End file.
